


Kneel as You Were Born to Kneel

by AsYouCommand (OminousHummingObelisk)



Category: Starbucks Coffee - Fandom
Genre: Acts of Worship, Body Horror, Eldritch Abomination, Far Future Dystopia, Gen, Lactation, POV Second Person, Pumpkin Spice, Religious Cult, Starbucks, animal cruelty, coffee shop AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-09-15
Updated: 2018-09-15
Packaged: 2019-07-12 11:12:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 548
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15993989
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/OminousHummingObelisk/pseuds/AsYouCommand
Summary: In which you must go to worship as you have always gone, as your ancestors have gone before you, as your unfortunate children will go when you are dead.





	Kneel as You Were Born to Kneel

**Author's Note:**

> [Original Tumblr post with prompt tweet.](https://www.tumblr.com/blog/as-you-have-commanded)

Horrifying, genetically-engineered barista-beasts, grown in vats of unspeakable fair-trade fluids in secret corporate caverns beneath every city that survived the Ending. Their vocal cords are cut before they pass into the ownership of the local Starbucks Caff Chapel™. The consumers are not pleased to hear them scream.

Leave your shoes at the base of the steps and ascend to where the barista-wrangler waits above the spine of his charge, wearing his mask and his butcher’s apron. The grip of his barista-prod is worn smooth from use, and you know that his long experience will provide you with a fine sacrament. You toss a pinch of amber dust into the tip-censer and he nods in thanks. He turns his ear to your lips as you begin to recite your prayer, the nonsense phonemes of the liturgical cant lying heavy on your tongue.

He lifts a hand and you go silent. There is a limited edition seasonal flavor, he says. It lives at no other time, only now, he says, when the world begins to die into winter, leaning into the dark. Only then can the syrups survive in the open air.

You look and you wish that you had not. You see the gruesome, rust-hued bladder; you see the crudely twisted wire, the flaying and the stapling, the way the barista’s shuddering meat cringes away from the invasion. The beast’s many mouths are stretched wide and make no sound.

The wrangler leans toward you, elbow resting on the butt of his prod. Limited time only, the masked man says. Flavor of the season. Available only while supplies last, he warns, and he casts a veteran eye across the sagging, sutured organ down below. Soon, he murmurs. It will be over soon.

Will you partake? he asks in the cadence of ritual. The syllables of the god-tongue have deserted you, but you nod, and you do not know why, and you are afraid. The barista-wrangler nods in acceptance. There is the slightest gleam of pity in his eyes.

You do not question the price of the coffee. You do not question the currency in which it must be paid. This is the way that it has always been.

Please step around to the pick-up counter, he intones, hefting his cruel device above the thing chained below.

Ascend now; cross the walkway above the heaving barista and hear the wet impacts as the wrangler bends to his craft. Descend into the place of communion, where the booths are hung with purple velvet and incense lies thick in the air, almost enough to obscure the smell of animal blood, sweat, scorched meat, syrup-chrism wasted over stained rock—

The cantor calls your name and now you must slip between the velvet drapes and kneel in the dark, against the very flank of the barista. Reach out with your trembling, unworthy hands until you find— There. There. Right before your face.

The nipple of the holy beast is firm, and the aureole is soft against your lips. Close your eyes and drink, drink, drink until the nourishing breast hangs, spent and empty, against your cheek. This is everything that you had wanted. It was just as you hoped it would be.

Grande pumpkin spice latte, half-caff blond, whole cream, two pumps caramel, no whip.

**Author's Note:**

> #there is also a sacramental breakfast croissant warmed over the burning blood and breath of the barista #always tip your barista they work very hard and lose a lot of skin and fluid on holy days


End file.
